This Honourable House by Edwina Currie Read Free Book Online Page B

could, that he sought to hide what he lacked. When subsequently he was caught on film falling over on the beach as the tide came in, his lack of sure-footedness became his bane. He, too, led his party to disaster.
    The icon for all parties was Margaret Thatcher. Christine, to her delight, had been compared to her more than once. But when she had arrived at the House Margaret had been a brunette, not a blonde. The peroxide had come later. So had the deepened voice, and the sexy little twist to the mouth. Christine had seen early footage when she was first elected to the leadership. Then, her nerves showed in a constant clearing of the throat at the end of each high-pitched sentence and a frightened-rabbit flicker in the eyes. But once the Right Honourable Member for Finchley had made it to Number Ten, she took advice. Out went the fussily patterned frocks with their complicated necklines. Off came a stone in weight, though nobody ever mentioned it. Down floated the voice. Up went the skirt length; in came navy suits that showed off her slim legs. The Iron Lady, product both of a steely character and a chunk of splendid PR, was born.
    Christine slid out of the hot bed and padded into the bathroom. She stood for several minutes gazing into the mirror. No wrinkles yet; the hint of a smile line exactly where she wanted it. An alarm clock announced that it was six-thirty. Still not time to get up.
    She brushed her teeth. She was not averse to using her mouth and tongue in sex, as they had tried again last night. It seemed rude to rise and clean her teeth immediately afterwards. She had noticed that Benedict’s body language, when he kissed her down there , indicated that he would like to wash his mouth at once, but she did not let him; she held him to her, and murmured gentle words, and he relaxed a bit, until it was time to try something else.
    So much of this was new to him – that was plainly obvious. Christine was loath to admit to her husband that she was an experienced player: to do so might have entailed too many explanations, none appropriate on a honeymoon. She had no wish to talk about old lovers and their styles, so anything she introduced had to be paraded as her own spontaneous idea, or something any healthily adventurous female would do with a man she fancied. That was pretty close to the truth, anyway. The veil was to be drawn over Benedict’s innocence, or it was to be portrayed between them as an attractive trait. He had been so engrossed in politics that sexual activity had not featured much in his life. He had never been in love before, he had told her, and she believed him. He was thrilled and amazed that she had accepted his proposal to be his wife. She believed that, too. Wherever she led in bed, he would follow. He was determined to satisfy her.
    His determination was not in question, Christine reflected, as she rinsed and replaced the toothbrush. Whatever Benedict set his mind to he would achieve, whatever it took. It was his ability that gave rise to the niggle of concern.
    Her bed had been made by nobody but herself. And she would lie on it. Nobody as sweet, as dear, as interesting as Benedict had ever crossed her path before. So many other men, and most women, had flitted past who were so boring that their presence in the same room was a trial. But her and Benedict’s tastes and views were miraculously well matched, and they hugely enjoyed each other’s company. She was impressed that he intended to get himself into the front rank, and was keen to encourage him in every step. If they were compared with the Clintons, or with other political marriages where the curious asked, ‘What does she see in him?’ or ‘Why on earth does she stand by him?’ Christine Ashworth took it as a compliment.
    This way, of course, she could enjoy the fruits of success without having to go through the motions herself, but her support of Benedict was unselfish. They had become friends, close and affectionate, before